


who doesn’t want to live with the brisk motor of his heart singing

by AuroraWest, Nonexistenz



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Asgardian Culture (Marvel), Bad Flirting, Bisexual Loki (Marvel), Bisexual Stephen Strange, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Midsummer, Mild Sexual Content, New Asgard, POV Loki (Marvel), Romance, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:06:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28488027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraWest/pseuds/AuroraWest, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonexistenz/pseuds/Nonexistenz
Summary: People thought being a prince was romantic. They definitely,definitelyweren't thinking of being a Prince of New Asgard. Nevertheless, there's still some romance to be found at New Asgard's Midsummer Feast.
Relationships: Loki/Stephen Strange
Comments: 11
Kudos: 49
Collections: Froststrange Week 2021





	who doesn’t want to live with the brisk motor of his heart singing

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Froststrange Week 2021. Prompts were "The way you flirt is shameless."/Loki and Stephen sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G/formal wear. Nonexistenz's art will be coming soon!

The thing with being a prince was that people thought it was romantic. They thought it was lavish balls filled with men and women in their finery, the men handsome and charming, the women beautiful and twittering. They thought it was garden parties filled with witty and amusing repartee. They thought it was extravagant clothing, servants waiting on your beck and call, nothing but the finest food and drink. A life of opulent leisure, unsullied by hardship or reality.

As with most misconceptions, this wasn’t _entirely_ a crock of shit. On Asgard, before Ragnarok, all of these things had existed—though Loki had found most Asgardian men to be lacking in the charm department, and most Asgardian women would rather run you through with a sword than twitter. The most amusing thing at any given garden party on Asgard was Thor stuffed into some silken creation of a tailor somewhere who had apparently never met him, and which he would inevitably spend the entire time tugging at—which of course made Loki’s snickering at this the wittiest thing there. Extravagant clothing, servants, all the finest things, yes, yes, that had been _part_ of it, but glancing at the life of a prince, particularly Prince Loki, once of Asgard and now of New Asgard, and seeing only the gloss of romanticized royalty, was like looking at a frozen ocean and assuming all there was to it was the ice.

Because underneath that shining ice on the surface was the next layer—the boring ceremony at court functions, the set roles that the royal family played. Loki and Thor weren’t Loki and Thor, they were Prince Loki and Prince Thor, and the titles turned them into very different people, people whom, Loki now understood, neither of them had wanted to be.

The next layer was the expectations that Loki had always chafed at, the weight of a family tree and a dynasty that he was expected to carry on and be a credit to, even though he would never be more than a shadow behind the throne—at best. At worst, he would be the forgotten younger prince, his brother’s sour, embittered backup.

And beneath that, a frigid, black ocean of silent, roiling water that was…everything else. The lies. The stifled emotions. The relationships held at arm’s length. The secrets. The propping up of a golden sham.

Loki crossed his arms over his chest and looked out over New Asgard’s Great Hall. He’d been getting lazy about calling it the “Great” Hall recently, because he’d become more fond of it over the years. And also because he’d made some decorating suggestions which had been mostly listened to, and the more his own hand in the place was obvious, the more insulting it became to hoist himself by his own petard. That was something he’d done enough of in his life, so he tried to avoid it now when possible.

Being a Prince of New Asgard had none of the luxurious trappings that had gone with being a Prince of Asgard. For starters, they didn’t have balls. Balls had been for the aristocracy, and there were hardly any of them left. You could be missing several fingers (as old Brokkr was) and still count the aristocracy on one hand. No, when formal celebrations occurred in New Asgard, they were the feasts of Loki’s and Thor’s distant ancestors. They bore more in common with the festivities put on by the Vikings who had once worshipped the Asgardians as gods than with some of the events that had gone on in Asgard’s waning days. They were the kinds of affairs that the common people had always had, but which Loki and Thor had been insulated from as royalty. But in New Asgard, population roughly 500, there was no reason to have a separate celebration. They all crammed into the Great Hall. Thor, Loki, and Brunnhilde put on their New Asgardian finery and played their ceremonial roles, which involved learning lines and giving speeches, and which Loki didn’t really care for but did because it was a link to their pasts and a thread to the future, and these were his people, and _they_ cared about it.

Anyway, there was something to be said for _some_ traditions. Loki didn’t care for much of what Asgard had been, but he cared for _Asgard._ The traditions that stretched back eons, those were the ones that were hammered into all their bones—even someone like him, who wasn’t, biologically speaking, Asgardian. These festivals were part of what it meant to be Asgardian, of what it meant to be part of Yggdrasil and the Nine Realms. Asgard’s gods had always been a bit nebulous to Loki. They existed, he supposed, and the feasts were partly to celebrate them, partly to celebrate the changing of the seasons, partly to celebrate events in Asgard’s past—all of it folded into a march of holidays spread over each year.

Ostara and Midsummer had always been the embarrassing ones. The whole fertility _thing_ had been mortifying to Loki as an adolescent and he’d never quite shaken that feeling. His shapeshifting had made him a target for taunts from his so-called friends, which hadn’t helped. Those so-called friends were mostly dead now, so he didn’t have to worry about them carrying on the tradition—and Sif had grown up a bit.

Brunnhilde, of course, didn’t much care about his embarrassment when it came to standing up in front of the Realm (aka, the assembled village). “If I have to do it, you have to do it,” she always said.

“I’m barely in line for the throne,” Loki would protest. “Get Korg up there; I’m sure he’d love to expound on the importance of rebirth and fecundity.”

He would. Loki unfortunately knew this from personal experience. He now knew far more about Kronin romance and reproduction than he’d ever wanted to.

Anyway. He did his part, because for as much as he complained about it, there was something to be said for being a united front with New Asgard’s ruling council. And what that really meant, deep down, was that he would never not be surprised…and happy…and grateful, if he was being honest, that he was a united front with Thor.

From his position at the back of the Great Hall, he could see the assembled “court”—Thor, Jane, truly the greatest sister-in-law Loki could ever have asked for, Brunnhilde and Sif, Korg, and Miek, who had recently undergone some sort of…metamorphosis. Thor’s love of being the center of attention had been tempered by maturity and a large helping of grief—but it hardly had removed the quality. Loki, on the other hand, was just as content to sit back and observe. They’d probably come looking for him at some point, but for the moment, he was free to watch for latecomers to the feast.

One specific latecomer, actually. Loki had known said latecomer would miss the formalities, but he couldn’t really fault the man for being busy—there was apparently some sort of celestial occurrence in another dimension that opened up a passageway to this plane of existence, which put them in danger of invasion from mind-sucking snails. “So they’re slow-moving and susceptible to table salt?” Loki had asked, his mouth twitching with an attempt not to smile.

“Yeah, you laugh now, but it’s not as funny when everyone’s crawling around vacantly, bringing lettuce to our snail overlords.”

“Is that what would happen?”

“It’s sort of my job to make sure we don’t find out.”

So Loki had said, “Well, we’ll be there all night. If you get there early enough, a statistically significant portion of the populace might still be sober, too.”

The doors creaked open and a figure walked in, shoulders covered by a red cloak, brown hair tousled, a swagger to his stride that Loki found thoroughly sexy. He slowed as he looked around the room, and Loki smiled. Sidling up behind him, Loki said close to his ear, “I must be in a museum, because _you_ are a work of art.”

Stephen Strange turned around, already smirking. “That was horrible,” he said.

“Well, I learned from the best,” Loki said, clasping his hands in front of his hips and allowing a smile to flicker over his face. Allowing. Right. Trying not to grin like an idiot was more like it. “Or would that be the worst?”

“My flirting is legendary,” Stephen said, still smirking.

“Your flirting is shameless, actually,” Loki said. “And I’m not sure I mean that as a compliment.”

Stephen’s mouth curved into a wider smile and it was everything Loki could do not to kiss him right there in the middle of the Great Hall, surrounded by everyone in New Asgard. Only his deep, _deep_ aversion to that sort of public display of affection stopped him. But he could feel the smile on his own face getting progressively more stupid as the two of them stared at each other.

“Did I miss all the festivities?” Stephen asked.

Tilting his head, Loki said, “You’re just in time for the drinking.” His eyes flicked down to Stephen’s robe. He reached out and brushed white grains off Stephen’s shoulder, arching an eyebrow. “So the mind control snails _were_ defeated by table salt, hm?”

With a mildly affronted look, Stephen said, “I had to go to Whole Foods for this stuff, and I’ll have you know it was sustainably sourced.”

Swiping a finger along Stephen’s collarbone to get the last of the salt, Loki stuck his finger in his mouth, pursed his lips in a smile, and said, “Do you happen to have any left over? Now that it’s finally summer, I can’t help craving a margarita.”

Stephen chuckled and one of his hands reached out, just briefly, to squeeze Loki’s hip. “Seriously, I’m sorry I missed all the pomp and ceremony. I like watching you be Prince Loki.”

“Mm.” Loki made a face. “A holdover from a previous life.”

Without responding to this, Stephen took a step back, his eyes moving from Loki’s head to his feet and back up again. It made Loki feel both self-conscious and prickly with heat. The way Stephen looked at him made his blood run hot. The combination of love and desire in his eyes felt more potent, at times, than Loki’s magic. “You look great,” Stephen said.

Loki glanced down at himself. An Asgardian feast—even a New Asgardian feast—called for something formal. There wasn’t much money to go around, but Loki had been saving, and part of those funds had gone towards having new clothes made for the Midsummer Feast. He had on a shirt of calfskin, dyed a rich, emerald green. The collar was high, as he preferred, stitched with gold, and there was a thin piece of hammered gold inset just below his collarbone. The pants were calfskin as well, but black, with lines of gold running down the outer seams to his knees. Over both, he wore a knee-length coat made of wool, with a flared collar. It was a dark, charcoal gray, very nearly black, with panels of dark green sewn into the sides.

There were, additionally, a few pieces that he always wore at feasts. A thin gold coronet was perched in his hair and there was a small gold ear cuff on his right ear. Both were made from Midgardian gold. Loki couldn’t bring himself to wear any of his Asgardian gold anymore, though he still had a few pieces hidden away in his pocket dimension.

“Thanks,” he said. He never quite knew what to do when his voice was devoid of snark and snideness, but Stephen made it feel right. “It’s new,” he added, though Stephen would probably have assumed this already. He forgot nothing, after all, and he’d been subjected to just over two years’ worth of New Asgardian feasts at this point.

Stephen’s eyes took in the room, then he glanced down at himself. “I know I’m underdressed, sorry.”

“And here I was, thinking your wizard robes and the Cloak counted as every day casual, battle gear, _and_ formal dress,” Loki said, a slight smile on his face.

“I could have brought a suit to change into,” Stephen said, returning the smile with a crooked one of his own.

Loki opened his mouth to respond, then closed it. Actually, he wouldn’t have minded that at all—Stephen in a suit made him want to do things that weren’t very becoming of a prince. But then the Cloak rippled and poked him with one corner, and Loki snorted. “This is perfectly fine. Anyway, the Cloak really pulls the whole ensemble together.”

When Stephen laughed, Loki’s entire body filled with fluttering heat. He knew, he _knew_ , _he knew_ , that he needed to stay here; he needed to make the rounds and mingle, and then he needed to sit with Thor and both of them would drink too much, and the people of New Asgard would probably try to get Stephen drunk and Loki would have to intervene because they could be very pushy about it.

Then again, there would be plenty of time for all that.

“Let’s go for a walk,” Loki said.

Stephen raised his eyebrows. “I thought you were supposed to hang around here.”

“I am.” Loki reached for Stephen’s hand and caught his fingertips just for a second. “They won’t miss me if it’s only for a little while.”

There was actually a distinct possibility that they _would_ , but Loki pushed the door open anyway, Stephen right behind him.

It was a beautiful day, warm, the sky clear, a clean breeze blowing off the fjord, bringing with it the smell of ocean. There was a faint hint of woodsmoke on the air, as well—Norwegians built bonfires for their own Midsummer celebrations. Some of the children in the village had begun asking why they didn’t do that as well—not to mention asking why they couldn’t celebrate Christmas, or Chanukah, or Diwali, or Halloween, or any of the Midgardian holidays that their human friends told them about. It was only a matter of time, Loki supposed. Thor and he celebrated Jane’s holidays, and Loki would celebrate Stephen’s too, if Stephen was much of a holiday person.

The two of them walked, Stephen reaching for Loki’s hand after a few minutes. The sun was still overhead, despite the evening hour. Though New Asgard wasn’t far enough north that it ever had endless daylight in the summer, the days still felt nearly so. And for a few weeks around the solstice, the night never got truly dark. Tonight, the sun would set at midnight and the sky would darken to a bluish dusk for an hour and a half. The brightest stars would be visible; Earth’s neighboring planets would hang in the sky, shining steadily through the twilight. Then, the sky would lighten again before the sun rose just before four in the morning. It made Loki want to _do_ things, though he was never quite sure what those things were. The bright, long days filled him with a sense that he was wasting them.

But then Stephen appeared and this feeling always dissipated.

Hm. There was an obvious joke there. Maybe the thing Loki wanted to be doing was Stephen.

He would. Anyway, it was expected at both the spring and the summer feasts. The bawdy jokes would start later, once people were drunker, and at least one couple would be caught rutting against the wall in the shadows. Loki was determined to wait until the two of them were behind closed doors, so they could strip down and enjoy each other’s bodies slowly and fully. Stephen didn’t have the strength to hold Loki up against the wall, of course—but Loki’s dresser was a good height.

A slight pressure between his legs told him it was time to stop thinking about this. As they strolled along the path that would eventually lead to the orchards, Loki asked, “So how were the snails, really?”

“Slimy,” Stephen said. “And a lot faster than I thought.”

“Had they already turned people into lettuce-bearing minions?” Loki said, arching an eyebrow.

Stephen snorted. “You know, I actually think they might be carnivorous.”

Squeezing Stephen’s hand, Loki said, “Then I suppose our universe owes you once more, Sorcerer Supreme.”

“Yeah?” Stephen stopped and wrapped his arms around Loki, pulling him close, his hands flat against Loki’s back. “Does that mean someone might show their appreciation?”

“It depends on what kind of appreciation you had in mind,” Loki replied, smiling slightly. “Perhaps some city official will send you flowers.”

With a wry smile, Stephen said, “Uh huh. Sounds nice.”

“Not what you were thinking?”

The smile on Stephen’s face got a little more crooked, and he breathed in once, then out, before lowering his face to Loki’s neck and kissing slowly. His lips were warm and soft and Loki’s stomach did something unhealthy feeling. “Not exactly.”

The hands on Loki’s back pressed harder and he hooked an arm around Stephen’s neck. His other hand slithered over Stephen’s front and under his robe. Stephen’s hips jerked into Loki’s hand as Loki brushed his fingers over a certain part of Stephen’s anatomy. Digging his fingers into Stephen’s hair, Loki murmured, “You chose the right festival to save the universe during. I think I’m culturally bound to show my appreciation to you…”

“I want to respect your culture,” Stephen said, his voice muffled against Loki’s skin. “That’s pretty important to me. I want to make this interspecies romance work.”

Loki laughed, squeezed his hand—not the one in Stephen’s hair, but the other one—and then drew away. Later. Later later later. Waiting would make it better. He’d keep telling himself that. “I’ll make sure you have ample opportunity to ‘respect my culture,’ Strange. Don’t worry.”

As they separated, Loki held out his hand again, and Stephen took it. Holding hands wasn’t really his _thing_ , but there was no one around to see—and anyway, they were in New Asgard, where it was the tiniest bit more acceptable for people to see that he was romantically involved with someone.

The trees in the orchard were no longer blooming, and if you looked closely, some of them were already bearing small, hard fruit. Of course, it wouldn’t be ripe for months—though sometimes, New Asgard seemed to get a bit of a head start on the harvest, and thus a head start on selling said harvest. As they walked through the orchard, Stephen’s eyes narrowed. “Is it just me, or do these trees grow awfully fast? The first time I visited, they were way smaller.”

“Oh?” Loki asked, arching an eyebrow. “Perhaps you’re misremembering.”

Shooting a crooked smile at him, Stephen said, “You really want me to say it?”

“I didn’t think you were capable of _not_ saying you never misremember anything,” Loki said, smiling. Smiling stupidly, it had to be said. He felt giddy. Midsummer had that effect. But more than that, _Stephen_ had that effect. He made Loki feel young; he made Loki feel like…like anything was possible. If such a decent, good man loved him, then _wasn’t_ anything possible?

They walked deeper into the orchard, the spreading branches and green leaves dappling the lanes between the trees with sunlight and shadow. There was one particular tree in the center of the orchard that, if Loki had favorite trees, would probably qualify. It was the first one they’d planted—the first one _he_ had planted, since he had been the one to suggest an orchard. It reminded him of Asgard, but it was also useful. They could sell the fruit that they didn’t need, and that would be good for the Realm.

Its branches were high and gnarled. It looked far older than a six-year-old tree. Stephen was right. The trees _did_ seem to grow awfully fast in New Asgard. It was almost as though someone was helping them along, perhaps with a little Asgardian magic.

Looking at Stephen with a smile that felt irrepressible, Loki asked, “Did you ever climb trees when you were young?”

Stephen gave him a wry smile. “I grew up on the Upper East Side. What do you think?”

Loki wrapped a hand around one of the lower branches, tugging at it to test its sturdiness. “Then I’m glad I can be the one to give you this education.” He hoisted himself up, then turned around and quirked an eyebrow at Stephen. “Coming?”

With a chuckle, Stephen said, “Odinson, I have a magic cloak. I don’t need to climb the tree.”

And he didn’t, which frankly, was not any fun of him at all. But Loki supposed he couldn’t entirely blame him. Stephen’s hands probably weren’t up to the task of gripping the branches and pulling up his own weight.

Loki chose a branch that was sturdy enough to hold both of them, about halfway up the tree, and where there was an open space where they could sit and not have leaves in their faces. Stephen didn’t look particularly dignified as he pushed branches aside to join Loki, and when Loki smirked at him, Stephen said, “I don’t really need commentary, thanks.”

“Mm,” Loki said, still tempted to provide it. “I suppose you’re lucky that I like you so much.”

Settling himself on the branch (with the Cloak’s help) and looking vaguely alarmed about it, Stephen replied, “Well, yeah. That goes without saying. He rocked backwards, a startled expression on his face, and Loki caught him with a grin.

“Yes, yes,” Loki said. “I know. Upper East Side.” He scooted closer to Stephen so that Stephen’s hips were secured between Loki’s and the tree trunk.

With a chuckle, Stephen said, “You know, you’re kind of the last person I would’ve expected to be an outdoorsy kid. I always picture you holed up in your bedroom reading.”

“I did enough of that, as well,” Loki said, a faint smile flickering over his face. “I liked being alone—that was the important thing. I sought solitude anywhere I could find it.” He shrugged. “And I _did_ like being outside. Asgard was very beautiful.”

The familiar pain clutched at him. He could, of course, conjure an illusion of Asgard any time he wanted. He could show Stephen his home, his childhood bedroom, all of his old haunts. The orchard, the gardens, the stables, the boathouse. The library, the Observatory, the solarium. In fact, he _had_ shown Stephen some of these places. Loki could conjure them perfectly, though his memory was probably a bit rosier than reality had been. He didn’t always include all the cracks and broken tiles.

Somehow, it made it worse that he could do this. It was like conjuring the loss anew every time. Yes, he could create an illusion. Yes, he could stand in Asgard’s streets; could even populate them with all the dead and gone Asgardians that would never know their fates, because in Loki’s illusions, everything was always bright, clean, happy. The opposite of him, actually, but somehow that didn’t seem surprising. But he would, eventually have to wave the illusion away.

It was appropriate, he supposed. He’d been the one to destroy Asgard to begin with. He was the one with the power to bring it back and destroy it again and again, even if it was only a pale shadow of his home.

Something pressed against his back and Loki glanced over at Stephen. He had slipped his arm around Loki carefully, intense concentration on his face as he balanced on the branch, and his hand was rubbing up and down along Loki’s spine. Perceptive. Stephen had always been so perceptive. With a smile, Loki laid his fingers across the back of Stephen’s other hand, which was resting on his leg. “I used to sneak away from feasts on Asgard, too,” he said. “I’d come to the orchard. No one ever found me…I suspect my mother knew exactly where I’d gone, and perhaps threw my father off the scent.” He smiled sadly. “She never much cared for court functions, either.”

Stephen’s hand trailed down Loki’s back. “Why do I have this feeling that both of you hid it really well?”

With a breath of laughter, Loki said, “My mother did. I’m not sure I had the same talent. Well.” He shrugged. “I had the talent. But I often made my dislike of such things perfectly well known, for those who cared to look.”

“So no shameless flirting, huh?”

Loki arched an eyebrow. “I didn’t say _that_. I had to entertain myself somehow before I snuck out.” There had been one particularly memorable Midsummer, actually, where a brother and sister, minor nobility from Harokin, had attended with their parents. They’d been close in age to Loki and Thor and Loki had spent much of the feast flirting with the sister, taken by her dark eyes and the way the torchlight in the Feasting Hall had made her skin look like burnished copper.

It was the brother, though, who had followed Loki out of the hall. Loki had grown bored and his flirtations were getting him nowhere, but the young man had sought him out, complimented him, stood too close to him. And it was the brother whom Loki had very nearly had, his own back against a wall, the man’s hands sliding up the backs of his thighs to hold him in place. 

Loki had been quite drunk. In those days, he’d been convinced that it wasn’t proper for him, a prince, to be the one being held in place with his back against the wall

Thor had come upon them, though, and Loki had been too caught up in what he was doing to have the presence of mind to hear and cast a glamor, which had put an end to it.

Thor had very much been in his Trying To Be A Good Heir phase, so he’d grumbled a lot about Loki having an image to maintain and why couldn’t he find somewhere _private_ like a normal person instead of embarrassing _everyone_ and fucking like a common drunk against the wall, to which Loki had retorted that Thor had quite put a stop to the fucking, thanks-very-much. Loki’s almost-lover had slunk off. Loki had stormed away, sure he was going to be chastised by their father.

He hadn’t been, but he’d still been angry at Thor. The brother and sister pair hadn’t been invited to another feast.

His anger at Thor seemed a bit stupid now. Loki _should_ have found somewhere more private. Like a tree in the orchard, hidden within its branches, far away from prying eyes. Loki glanced at Stephen, his eyes tracing over his cheekbones, the swoop of his hair over his forehead, the way the green of the tree’s leaves brought out the same color in his eyes.

“My choices were occasionally questionable,” Loki said. “Which, to be fair, isn’t something I grew out of.”

He brushed his fingers over Stephen’s face, and Stephen smiled softly. “I thought there might be something more to that.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Like, certain choices you’ve made haven’t been quite as questionable.”

Returning the smile, Loki leaned over, kissing Stephen’s jaw lightly, his lips ghosting along the line of it until he got to his goatee. Then, suddenly, Stephen’s hands were cupping his face and his mouth was on Loki’s. The kiss was slow and hungry, and Loki made a helpless noise into Stephen’s mouth.

When Stephen teetered on the branch, Loki broke the kiss and caught him, one arm wrapped securely around Stephen’s waist. He supposed the Cloak wouldn’t let any harm come to Stephen if he _did_ fall—but why pass up the opportunity to hold Stephen close?

He still hadn’t addressed what Stephen had said. It was the sort of thing that Loki preferred to treat as rhetorical. But Stephen was looking at him adoringly, and that made Loki _want_ to say something. “You’re one of my best choices,” he said. “Even though, admittedly, the list isn’t long.”

With a snort, Stephen said, “You know you don’t have to qualify everything positive you say about yourself, right?”

Actually, he did. Good things didn’t come to Loki, regardless of how long he waited. His choices were mostly borne of anger, of being fed up, of being sick to death of settling.

Well. _Actually._ Actually, he was getting better about that.

A warm breeze rustled the leaves of the tree, and Loki pulled Stephen closer so he could rest his face against the side of Stephen’s head. Breathing in his scent, Loki replied, “Habit, I suppose.” He straightened up, his arm still tucked around Stephen’s back, while Stephen put his hand on Loki’s thigh, his fingers wrapping around it so his fingertips brushed the inside of Loki’s leg. Loki’s robe was hiked up enough to allow Stephen’s fingers to be very high up his leg, actually, and it was extremely familiar. It made electricity thrill through him. There had never been a single soul in Loki’s life whose touch he’d welcomed like this. The fingers, and their placement, promised something, of course. But it was the intimacy of it, the casual way those fingers said _this is a good choice_ and _it doesn’t require qualification_ , that made him feel alive _._

The leaves parted with the breeze and allowed the two of them to see through the branches. The fjord was visible, cobalt blue in the evening sun, peaceful and calm. On the other side of it, land was visible as a rolling, green-black strip of land. There were bright glints on the water as it moved, and as the two of them watched, something broke the surface. It was hard to tell from this distance, but they were probably porpoises. Woodsmoke was still in the air, perhaps a bit stronger now than it had been. Some years, when the air was still, the smoky haze got so thick over the fjord that it looked like fog. The breeze would keep the air clean this year, though.

There was still the barest tremor to Stephen’s fingers as they rested on Loki’s leg. Loki stared down at Stephen’s hand, then looked up as Stephen said, “Hey, this is like that dumb rhyme kids used to say. Or maybe they still do?”

“Dumb rhyme?” Loki asked.

With a crooked smile, Stephen said, “They didn’t have that on Asgard? The sitting in a tree one?” When Loki stared at him blankly, he added, “K-I-S-S-I-N-G?”

Dryly, Loki said, “No, we didn’t have that on Asgard. What a shame. Though.” He cocked his head. “I thought you didn’t climb trees? Surely this wasn’t something you heard very often?”

“Trees weren’t really necessary,” Stephen said. “More just the faint hint of childhood romance.”

“Mm. And did many of your friends chant this at you?” Loki asked.

Stephen shrugged, though his eyes were gleaming. “I mean, not to brag, but I was pretty popular with the ladies.”

Loki’s eyebrows went up. “The ladies,” he repeated. “Not to ask an obvious question, but…you seem to have rather a keen interest in the non-female form, as well.”

Snorting in a faintly derisive way, Stephen replied, “Yeah, well, things were different in the 80s. I think I only got called ‘fag’ once or twice. But I also didn’t really show any interest in men until college.”

“Ah.” Loki looked down at Stephen’s hand again, tracing a finger lightly over his scars. “Yes. I had similar experiences on Asgard.”

Another thing he didn’t include in his illusions, when he cast them. The suspicious looks, the distrust, even dislike. They hadn’t usually been because of who he slept with, but because of who he was—or rather, who he wasn’t. His magic, his quietness. His dark hair, so unlike the rest of his family’s. But sometimes, he’d been called names, similar to what Stephen had been called.

Nothing like that had ever happened in New Asgard, nor on _The Statesman_ before it. Loki was _Loki_ , the prince, but more importantly, an Asgardian—and nothing else mattered. He’d made a choice to go back, to be Loki of Asgard, to return and rescue his people, and it had been one of the first good choices he’d made in a long time. The other good choices had spun out from that one, bringing him, ultimately, here, to this moment.

The two of them sat in comfortable silence. Nothing really needed to be said after this—it wasn’t a particular shock that people had been cruel to Stephen, just as Loki was sure Stephen wasn’t surprised that people had been cruel to him. Anyway, he had little interest in discussing it. For one thing, the people who had taunted Loki were all dead.

Plus, Stephen was beginning to look more comfortable perched on the branch. He wasn’t sitting so stiffly anymore; the muscles around his ribs and back had loosened a bit, allowing Loki’s arm to mold more closely to him.

“You know,” Stephen said after a few minutes. “We’re _in_ the tree. Seems kind of a shame not to do what the song says.”

Glancing up at him, one eyebrow arched, Loki said, “You called it a chant. Now it’s a song?”

Stephen raised his hands to the sides of Loki’s neck and said, “As much as I love listening to you talk—be quiet, Odinson.”

Loki had enough time to laugh before Stephen kissed him, one of his hands still resting on the side of Loki’s neck, the other sliding up over his face until his fingers tangled in Loki’s hair. Loki kissed him back, mouth open, his tiny intake of breath the sort of thing that Stephen would notice and press his advantage with.

The thing was, Loki was far more comfortable sitting on the tree branch, and Stephen was the one who was sandwiched between Loki and the trunk. And that meant Loki was—with some maneuvering—able to swing one of his legs over the branch until he was straddling it, then push Stephen’s back up against the trunk. Of course, it also meant that Stephen was twisted awkwardly, though he didn’t seem to mind all that much as his hands trailed down Loki’s back and pulled him closer.

“Your Cloak could be more helpful,” Loki said, breaking the kiss to put his mouth against Stephen’s neck. “I can’t reach everything I’d like to with you sitting this way.”

Laughing and burying his fingers in Loki’s hair, Stephen said, “I think the Cloak would rather we kept it PG when it’s around.”

Loki just made a noise. One of the many benefits of being Asgardian was strength far beyond a human’s. He didn’t need the Cloak’s help to get Stephen where he wanted him. With a grunt, he got his hands under Stephen’s arse and lifted him up, ignoring Stephen’s protestation and yelp of alarm. He’d anticipated this, anyway, and was prepared to pull Stephen’s leg over the branch himself so they were both straddling it and facing each other.

When this was done, Loki smirked. Stephen looked like he was trying to recover his composure. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Stephen asked.

“Immensely,” Loki said, a smile flickering over his face. “I always enjoy seeing the Sorcerer Supreme taken just a _bit_ off-guard.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Stephen’s hands slid down Loki’s back to his hips, then ran over the tops of his legs and back. “Are you going to take advantage of it or what?”

With another smile, both softer and hungrier, Loki scooted his hips forward and leaned in, until the two of them were pressed together, mouth to mouth, chest to chest, and—well, the slow rolls of Stephen’s hips against Loki’s brought another part of their bodies into contact, which was, of course, exactly what Loki had intended by getting Stephen into this position. It was possibly a compromising one. They’d have to see. Fifteen feet off the ground and in an apple tree didn’t necessarily seem like the best place for sex, but it would either be exhilarating and hot…or it would be a complete and utter failure, but would at least be funny.

“No,” Stephen said.

Loki laughed. Sort of. His tongue was occupied and his mind was getting to that fuzzy, blank place that was embarrassingly typical when he was with Stephen. “No what?” he managed to ask.

Stephen took his time answering, one of his hands finding its way under Loki’s shirt to brush against his stomach. “We’re not fucking in this tree.”

“Just kissing?” Loki asked. There was a certain breathlessness to his voice that probably should have been a bit embarrassing, too.

But Stephen couldn’t answer—at least, not out loud, but what he was doing with his mouth on Loki’s was answer enough. It wasn’t like this wasn’t fitting for the particular feast that was occurring over in the Great Hall. Really, they were celebrating Midsummer in the most appropriate way. Stephen _had_ said he wanted to show respect to Loki’s culture. Not only that—

“Stephen,” Loki said, which was quite muffled as he tried, though not all that hard, to pull his lips away. “Your kissing in a tree song. We could repurpose it, couldn’t we? For Midsummer. Fucking has the same number of letters as kissing…”

At this, Stephen laughed. Loki could do nothing but stare at him stupidly, drinking in how handsome he was, his beautiful smile, the warmth of his laugh. “I love you,” Loki said, quite without meaning to.

“I love you too,” Stephen said, a crooked smile still on his face. “Thanks for inviting me to your alien sex holiday.”

“Well.” Gazing into Stephen’s eyes, which were glinting with amusement, Loki said, “I had to invite _someone_.”

“Uh huh, and I’m guessing I wasn’t your first choice?”

“Oh, you know, everyone else was conveniently busy.”

“Right.” Stephen leaned forward and kissed Loki’s neck slowly. The heat sitting in Loki’s belly flared out through his whole body. Somehow Stephen could do things with his mouth that…well, were very reminiscent of _other_ things that he did with his mouth. “As your fifth choice, I’m really honored.”

Tilting his head back and closing his eyes, Loki asked, “Who says you were even in the top ten?”

Stephen’s laugh puffed against Loki’s skin, his breath hot. “So what _does_ a guy need to do to break the top ten?”

Loki slid his hands under Stephen’s robe, finding the closure on his pants and undoing it. “I’m holding interviews.”

This time, Stephen’s chuckle was lower, sexier, with a telltale growl to it that told Loki he was going to get exactly what he wanted. “Can mine be an audition?” Stephen asked.

With a smile, Loki flicked a finger and cast a spell, which sent his pants and underwear to his pocket dimension. They could trade places with the lube.

Even if Stephen was inclined to be sensible—which was a quality he thought he was in far greater possession of than he actually was—confronted with Loki sliding onto his lap, naked from the waist down, and pulling his pants open, Loki was hoping that good sense would desert him.

It did.

And they fell out of the tree, though the Cloak caught them before any serious damage was done. Hot, a complete and utter failure, _and_ more exhilarating than Loki had intended it to be, for those four seconds that they’d been in freefall. It turned out that Loki still wasn’t very good at finding a smart place to have Midsummer sex.

Was it romantic to celebrate Midsummer in New Asgard’s orchard in the—er—traditional way? Possibly not as romantic as some people might imagine. Or possibly more. Or—possibly it didn’t matter, because with Stephen’s hands and mouth on him, Loki didn’t really need to think about anything else at all.


End file.
